


The Art of Manly Hugging

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-06
Updated: 2007-08-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Sometimes, you know, Dean just needs a goddamn hug.It's nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of dudes are into hugging. Like in that movie, with the football. Dean can't remember what it's called, but he definitely remembers there was hugging in it. And football dudes are pretty manly, if you ignore the whole ass-slapping, tight pants thing.





	The Art of Manly Hugging

Sometimes, you know, Dean just needs a goddamn hug.

It's nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of dudes are into hugging. Like in that movie, with the football. Dean can't remember what it's called, but he definitely remembers there was hugging in it. And football dudes are pretty manly, if you ignore the whole ass-slapping, tight pants thing.

He can't have Sam knowing about it, though. Sam has ugly hair, stupid clothes, and a talent for sniffing out Dean's weak spots and exploiting them mercilessly. Dean knows that if Sam found out about the hugging thing, he'd never hear the fucking end of it.

So he's subtle about it. Sometimes when they're out drinking, he'll squeeze onto the bar stool next to the one Sam's sitting on and bump their shoulders together, and sometimes Sam will sling one arm around Dean's neck and tug him closer. It's almost like a hug. Sometimes, if Sam's already had a few double shots of bourbon, Dean can turn his face into Sam's throat for a few seconds, and smell his shampoo and the soap he uses.

"You're drunk," Sam says, amused, the third or fourth time Dean does it.

"Yep," Dean says. He's barely buzzed. "So drunk, Sammy." He rubs his nose against Sam's pulse.

"My brother," Sam says to the bartender, the tone of his voice telling Dean that he's rolling his eyes.

"Got a lightweight on your hands," the bartender says.

Dean doesn't like being defamed, but he doesn't care much when he's got one of Sam's hands spread out across his lower back, holding him up.

He gets a bad cold, a couple of months after that, and shuffles around sucking mucus into the back of his throat, leaving crumpled tissues in his wake. He even lets Sam drive two whole days in a row. He's better by Friday, but he figures he might as well milk Sam's sympathy for all it's worth, and who the hell is more deserving of hugs than a sick Dean Winchester? Nobody, is who.

So he shuffles up beside Sam in a convenience store, puts on his best pity-me-I'm-sick voice, and says, "I want orange juice."

"Yeah, we'll get some," Sam says, distracted, looking at the batteries.

"With no pulp," Dean says, and leans into Sam, giving a pathetic snuffle.

"I know," Sam says. He wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean was hoping for the whole shebang, two arms and everything, but he'll take what he can get. "No pulp."

In Decatur, when Dean gets clawed up by a bug-bear and uses it as an excuse to drape himself all over Sam, clinging to his flannel shirt, Sam nudges him back and says, "Let me look at those wounds."

Near Minneapolis, Sam's grumpy, and pushes Dean away when he tries for a drunken cuddle.

In Sioux City, Sam acts like a fucking dumbass and almost gets himself killed, and when he comes stumbling out of the attic, dusty and bleeding from a cut on his forehead but somehow still in one piece, Dean hauls him in, saying, "Jesus Christ, you stupid asshole," and Sam, after a moment, wraps his arms around Dean and hugs him back.

It's kind of exactly as fucking wonderful as he's been imagining.

And the thing is, it's just too fucking much for him, after Sam dying and then killing the demon and then the whole year after that, when Dean wasn't sure if he'd live or not, and then Sam's bloody, triumphant face when Dean didn't die after all, and if he lost Sam at this point, he would crawl into a fucking hole and never come out again. It would be the end of his life, and he doesn't mean that in any sense but the most literal one.

"Hey, shh," Sam says, his hands catching at Dean's flannel, and it's only then that Dean realizes he's crying.

"Hey," Sam says again, and pulls Dean closer, one hand cupping the back of Dean's head, and there's nothing Dean can do at that point; he wraps his hands in Sam's t-shirt and lets it all out.

It stops eventually, and he pulls back, skin tight with drying tears. "Um. Sorry," he says.

Sam lifts the hem of his shirt and dabs at the sore skin beneath Dean's eyes. It's something Dean used to do when Sam was a little kid, and the reversal's almost enough to set him off again. "It's okay," Sam says. "I already knew about you and your waterworks, dude, it's not like it's surprising that you're a huge girl."

He's smiling, though, and his hands are gentle on Dean's skin, and so Dean just scoffs weakly and rolls his eyes.

"Hey," Sam says. He quits blotting at Dean's face and tucks his thumbs under Dean's chin, turning him toward the light. "You look terrible."

"I look fuckin' sexy and you know it," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says. He leans in and mouths at Dean's chin, the skin of his throat, his eyelashes fluttering against Dean's jaw. "You're a hot tamale."

"A hot—Sam, what the fuck," Dean says, indignant, and pulls away. Sam's smirking at him. Dean scrubs his hands against his pants. "You, um."

"You're talking too much," Sam says, and he kisses Dean for real, then, his mouth tender and open, sucking on Dean's upper lip.

Dean shuts the fuck up, for once in his life, and lets Sam kiss him and stroke the skin on the small of his back, and after a while, Dean stops trying to get the upper hand and just wraps his arms around Sam's neck and hangs on for all he's worth.

It doesn't stay sweet. Sam gets them up against a wall, and his thigh between Dean's legs, and Dean grunts and rocks down into it, needing, his hands gripping Sam's bare shoulders beneath his t-shirt.

"Christ. Christ," Sam says, and breaks off to suck hard at Dean's throat. "We should—"

"What," Dean says.

"We should—come on," Sam says, pulling away and heading down the stairs, his feet creaking on the aged boards. At the bottom, he turns and looks at Dean, his shirt untucked and his hair thoroughly rumpled. "You coming?"

"Fuck, I hope so," Dean says, and almost breaks his neck on his way down the stairs.

There's a bed in one of the rooms off the hallway—a huge-ass brass bed, covered with a dusty comforter, which Sam yanks off and throws onto the floor. The sheets beneath are clean enough, and then Dean stops fucking thinking about the state of the bedding when Sam tumbles them both onto the mattress, their limbs tangling.

Sam sprawls on his back and tugs Dean between his open thighs, hooking his legs over the backs of Dean's knees and knocking their boots together. Dean doesn't even know where to start, so he just buries his face against Sam's neck and scuffs his fingers through Sam's treasure trail. He feels hot and light-headed, like he's been drinking, but it's just from crying and Sam. Mostly Sam.

"Come on," Sam says, and gets his mouth on Dean's again.

Dean does the only thing he can, and shoves his hand between their bodies so he can work on the button fly of Sam's jeans.

"Yeah," Sam says, digging his heels down into the mattress and pressing his hips up against Dean's, managing to squash Dean's hand in the process. "Are you—can—"

"You gotta let me move my hand, Sammy," Dean says. He kicks Sam's legs aside so he can sit up on his knees—better access. Sam tips his head back and manages to hold mostly still while Dean carefully unfastens their jeans, first his own and then Sam's, slowly pulling each button through the stiff denim.

Sam isn't wearing any underwear. Dean spread his jeans apart as far as they'll go, taking in the dark curl of Sam's pubic hair, the weight of his balls against the worn inside of his pants. Dean's mouth floods with saliva, which he isn't expecting, and he swallows against it.

"Dean, what are you—" Sam says, struggling up onto his elbows.

"Hold your fuckin' horses," Dean says. He shoves his jeans down to mid-thigh, just far enough, and tugs at Sam's until Sam gets the idea and lifts his hips far enough for Dean to tug his down too. He pushes Sam back against the mattress and slots their hips together, just so, grinding a little until Sam gives into it and moans.

It's slow, which Dean isn't expecting either, but now that he's finally got Sam like this, all laid bare and trembling, he wants it to _last_. They rock together, Sam murmuring nonsense, alternately stroking through Dean's hair and running his hands across Dean's back. Dean wishes they had time to get properly naked, but he doesn't trust this skanky-ass bed, and anyway, they've got plenty of time for it—years, maybe, but that's geologic time, and what Dean's got right now is a half an hour in a dusty bed in an abandoned house, and it's more than he deserves.

Sam starts panting rhythmically when he gets close, his hands opening and closing on Dean's shoulders.

"Come on," Dean says, reaching down to cup Sam's tight balls, "you're almost—you—"

Sam's quiet, shuddering through it, but he blows his wad like a fucking champ, streaking come halfway up his own belly. It makes things slick and easy, and Dean puts his face down, forehead pressed against Sam's shoulder, and bares his teeth while he grunts out his own orgasm.

"Shit," Sam says, and wriggles a little, one arm slung around Dean's waist. "Dean, I. Fuck, I _love_ you, do you have any fucking idea—"

"I. Yeah," Dean says, smelling Sam's sweat and the dust from the mattress. "Um. Me too."  



End file.
